The Memory Painter: A Novel (6 page)

Finn scowled. Conrad had a knack for getting under people’s skin. Finn was a gentleman, born and raised in South Texas. He had all the manners that straitlaced churchgoing parents could instill, but Conrad’s condescension rubbed everyone the wrong way.

Finn exaggerated his Southern drawl. “Never crossed my mind, Yankee Doodle.”

Conrad ignored the jibe as he listened to Michael ramble in fluent Greek for close to ten minutes.

Finn whistled as the EEG readings went off the charts. “Shit on me.”

“Not as eloquent, but precisely my thought.” Conrad folded his arms, his face set in a deep frown. “This is implausible, people. Anyone here fluent in Greek?”

Diana shook her head. “No, but somehow he is.”

Michael’s words grew softer until they faded to silence. The team waited to see if he would speak again. But Michael remained immobile, apparently still asleep.

*   *   *

In reality Michael had been awake, trying to reconcile what had just happened to him. But he couldn’t come to terms with it. His panic rose and he sat up, yanking the electrodes off his head.

Diana hurried in and brought up the lights. “Hon? You okay? What the hell just happened?”

Michael took several deep breaths as he prepared to lie to his wife for the first time. “What do you mean? What happened?”

“You were speaking in Greek just now.”

“Greek?”

“We recorded it.”

He looked away, disconcerted … that complicated matters. He remembered speaking Greek in his dream, but he hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud. He also remembered speaking Latin and Hebrew. Dizzy, he closed his eyes. Diana reached out to support him.

Finn spoke into the microphone. He and Conrad were still behind the glass wall in the control room. “You okay in there, chief?”

Conrad leaned in and added, “Mike, can you describe what happened?”

Everyone waited for an answer. “Sorry, it’s all kind of disjointed.” Michael could feel their disappointment.

Diana tried to buoy the group. “Everyone, it’s late. Let’s give him time.”

She continued to talk but Michael wasn’t listening—instead he was riveted by her eyes. How could he explain his certainty that she had been the woman he had just witnessed being burned alive in ancient Rome? The memory still fresh in his mind, he walked out before anyone could see him cry.

*   *   *

It was four-thirty a.m. and only six cars sat in Boston’s Neurological Institute’s parking lot. Diana got behind the driver’s seat of an old Jeep Cherokee. Michael climbed in beside her and closed his eyes. After a few tries, the car started and they pulled out.

The drive home to their apartment in Charleston took ten minutes. Michael felt the car come to a stop.

“Hon? We’re here,” Diana said softly, keys in hand.

He appreciated her not grilling him on the way home but could tell she was brimming with questions.

She led him up the stairs, unlocked the door to their apartment, and disappeared into the bedroom. Michael sat on the couch and listened to her move about as she changed. He stared at the small living room. Everything looked the same but different.

A tiny one bedroom, the place had been perfect while they were in med school—the rent was cheap—so they had stayed even after they had gotten married. They were currently channeling all their funds into their research, with the hope that it would pay off down the road. Michael wasn’t sure if what happened to him tonight was their biggest breakthrough or a brutal end to their study.

Diana came out in her nightgown, her face scrubbed and her hair in a ponytail. It made her look sixteen instead of forty, and Michael gave a small smile. It reminded him of an old gymnastics picture he had seen of her in high school, poised on the balance beam—head gymnast, she liked to remind him. Petite and athletic, she still had a nymph-like air about her, coupled with a look of immense concentration and determination to tackle any obstacle. Right now, the obstacle happened to be him.

She sat on the chair instead of the couch, and crossed her arms. “Are we going to talk about why you lied?”

Michael remained silent.

“I know you remember what happened in there.”

“I need some time.”

“For what? Shutting us out of our own study?”

Michael didn’t want to do this now. “I’m not shutting you out,” he insisted and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The apartment was so small they were still in the same room, but she followed him anyway.

“We sanctioned this. You can’t have a reaction and keep it to yourself. This isn’t just about you.” She pointed her finger at his chest to punctuate the point.

“I know that. Don’t poke me.”

“I didn’t poke you,” she snapped.

“Yes, you did,” he yelled back.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to change the subject.”

“I’m not! I said I can’t talk about it yet. Can you please accept that and let it go?”

“How can you tell me to just let it go? You were speaking Greek! I’m pretty sure that’s not a normal side effect!”

“Yes, I’m aware of that!” He drank the water and spit it out. For some reason he could only taste the chlorine, fluoride, and heavy metals.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her concern overriding her anger. She took the glass and smelled it.

“This tastes horrible.” Then he realized his perception of how water should taste had changed now that he had something to compare it to—pure water from the third century.

Diana stormed over to the liquor cabinet. “How about a real drink?”

Michael debated. A stiff one might help. “No, then I can’t drive.”

“Where are you going?” Her back was to him. He could hear the hurt and bafflement in her voice.

He wanted to apologize to her—he knew he should—but instead he said, “I need a library.”

“At five a.m.?” Diana abandoned the drinks and sat on the couch, putting her head in her hands. “I knew this was a mistake. I can’t believe you talked me into letting you take it. Everything was on track. This could derail the study, our grant … everything.”

“Diana, you have to trust me.” Michael couldn’t stop his voice rising again. “I will tell you everything, but not tonight.”

“Well guess what?” She glared at him. “It’s morning.”

Feeling helpless, Michael gently shook his head no.

“Honey, I’m scared,” she pleaded with him. “Something happened to you. Ever since you took Renovo and woke up on that table, it’s like you’re not even here. Look at yourself in the mirror. What the hell happened?”

Michael turned away from her, unable to deal with this right now. He could count on one hand the number of times they had fought in their six years together. She was his partner in everything and he had never kept her in the dark before. He grabbed the keys.

His voice sounded far away, even to his own ears. “I can’t do this tonight. You’re not helping me.” He left before she could respond.

He got into the car. The first thing he did was adjust the rearview mirror so he could see his reflection. Diana had not been imagining things. Something was different. Outwardly, he still looked the same—the same Roman features, the same thick, black hair peppered with gray, the same five o’clock shadow he could never seem to lose. But there was a barely perceptible change within his eyes. Of course Diana had seen it. She knew him better than anyone.

He readjusted the mirror and drove, trying to kill the guilt he felt for shutting out his wife. She would forgive him later, once he explained, but for now he needed solitude to sort out the chaos in his head and prove that what existed in his mind was not some elaborate delusion triggered by the drug. He needed books.

Checking the time, he knew the Research Services Desk at Harvard’s Lamont Library wasn’t open yet. He would have to wait. Driving aimlessly, he saw St. Francis de Sales up ahead and pulled over. Michael had driven past the church countless times but had never felt the urge to go inside, until now.

He found the doors unlocked, inviting those in need of quiet reflection before the six-thirty mass inside. He walked in and was relieved to find no one else in sight.

As he sat on a pew, the enormity of it all hit him: his team had just created a super drug that made LSD seem like baby aspirin, he had just relived the life of a priest in third-century Rome, and he was not sure if what he had gone through was a series of hallucinations or actual memories.

All he knew was that the dream had felt as real as life and would bring ramifications. In one day, another man’s experiences had been added to his—a man who had lived over eighteen hundred years ago. Michael also couldn’t ignore the feeling that he had recovered a piece of himself he hadn’t even known was missing.

The scientist within him could not accept those findings. He wasn’t sure how to even begin to form a hypothesis, let alone how to analyze the data.

He found himself kneeling and closed his eyes. The Act of Love prayer came to his lips of its own accord. “
Domine Deus, amo te super omni et proximum meum propter te, quia tu es summum, infinitum et perfectissimum bonum, omni dilectione dignum. In hac caritate vivere et mori statuo. Amen.
”

As he spoke, he listened to the Latin, simultaneously translating the words in his mind:
O Lord God, I love you above all things and I love my neighbor for your sake because you are the highest, infinite, and perfect good, worthy of all my love. In this love I intend to live and die. Amen.

The prayer sounded alien to him, and he wondered how he, a declared atheist, could have internalized these beliefs. But his spirit embraced the words and the emotions they inspired, making him forget the question. He felt tears well in his eyes, and despite himself, he cried without shame.

Soon the sounds of parishioners intruded on his thoughts as they began to file in for mass. The curtain at the altar parted and an elderly priest came out from behind, busy preparing the table. He gave Michael an inquisitive look. It was obvious he had been listening.

Michael hurried to the exit, wanting nothing more than to avoid people. Outside, he got back in his car and stared at the church.
What in the hell was that about?

Without warning, he felt an urgent need to sleep. The library would have to wait.

He locked his doors, leaned back in his seat, and within moments sank into blissful oblivion.

TEN

Bryan opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his car, still feeling himself fall asleep as Michael Backer. His visions had never brought such clarity before.

He was Michael Backer.

Bryan sat up and laughed at the irony of it: he no longer thought he was crazy because he believed he was a forty-year-old neuroscientist from the eighties. But somehow it made perfect sense. Although he still had a thousand questions—to begin with, who the hell were these people and what had happened to them?

He closed his eyes and tried to recall more, frustrated that he had only remembered a small part of Michael’s life. This man was the key to everything, just as he felt certain that Linz had been Diana, Michael’s wife.

Bryan abandoned his attempt to retrieve more memories and checked his watch. He had been in Linz’s parking lot for over nine hours. Their meeting this morning felt like a lifetime ago. He grabbed his cell phone and called her.

*   *   *

“Hello?” Linz answered, between bites of pizza as she worked on her computer.

“Linz? This is Bryan, from this morning.”

She sat up in disbelief.

“I was wondering if we could meet again?”

Linz was speechless. He literally ran out the door this morning and now he wanted to meet. This man was an utter enigma. And one thing Linz couldn’t resist was a puzzle. “Um, when?”

“Now, I’m outside.”

“You’re here?” she squeaked. She’d just changed into her pajamas. Linz rushed to peek out the window and was able to see him on the street.

He pressed on. “It’s important.”

“What’s important?”

“Can I come up?” he asked.

“No.” She knew she sounded irritated, but she couldn’t help it. He ran out on her, dammit. “Just tell me over the phone. I’m busy with work.”

“I can’t. I need to see you,” he insisted.

Linz shook her head at herself. She was actually deliberating whether she should see him—because she desperately wanted to. She hadn’t stopped thinking of him all day.

“Linz. Please.” He said softly, his voice insanely intimate.

That did it. She was in big trouble. “Well, there’s a bar down the street called The Corner,” she offered, hating how flustered she sounded. She had to get a grip on herself. “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

She hung up and rushed to the bedroom to change. Debating on a little black dress in the mirror
,
she rolled her eyes at herself and settled for jeans.

*   *   *

The Corner was a quaint neighborhood pub with dim lighting, leather booths, and three dartboards along the back wall. Bryan sat in the far corner with a vodka shot and kept his eyes on the door.

Linz walked in. She scanned the bar and found him. When they saw each other, Bryan’s chest constricted, making it hard for him to breathe. New memories threatened to take hold of him. He closed his eyes and tried to focus.
Stay here. Stay. Here. I am here now. I am here now.

“Bryan?”

Bryan opened his eyes to see her staring down at him with a frown on her face, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Something funny?” she asked.

“My life.” He gestured, “Please.”

She sat across from him and put her laptop on the table.

To Bryan, the intimate booth became even smaller. He stared at the tattoo circling her arm, seeing it for the first time. “That looks like the armband from the museum,” he commented. It also made her look fierce.

Her eyes flashed in surprise at his observation.

“I like it,” he said simply, feeling her size him up.

“So do you normally show up at people’s doorsteps like this?” she asked. Her laptop beeped.

“Do you normally bring a computer everywhere with you?”